Gandalf the Young
by 1r2rta
Summary: Gandalf and Galadriel meet in Lothlorien when Gandalf is a young wizard. He falls in love with the beautiful elf and attempts to win her heart. Pre-Hobbit (obviously).
1. Chapter 1

The trees of Lothlorien rose high above the young wizard, twisting upward and upward, delicately wrought stairs and dwellings of the wood-elves cunningly made part of the trunks. He stood in awe, looking so far above him that his grey hat slipped from his head. Flustered and overwhelmed, he bent to retrieve it from the mossy floor. He could hear the strains of an elven choir coming from far away through the trees, and realized he had no idea where he was supposed to go.

The journey to the forest city had been long, and the harsh weather had made his trip from Gondor even more difficult. He had gotten himself turned around more than once; the fair city was well-hidden, and almost impossible to find for someone who had never been there before.

"Mithrandir."

Hastily turning at the sound of the melodious voice, the wizard lost his hat again. Cursing under his breath, he stooped again to retrieve it, avoiding eye contact with the tall wood-elf that stood before him.

Haldir smirked at the wizard's blunder. "Welcome, wizard, to Lothlorien, home of the wood-elves. I am Haldir, marchwarden of the forest's northern borders. You have traveled far at our summons."

The wizard did not miss the smugness in the marchwarden's voice. Replacing his hat and straightening his gray robes, he brought himself to his full height and said, "Greetings, Haldir. I am Gandalf, the Grey, summoned here by Lord Celeborn." Uncertainly, he cast a look at the opulent surroundings. "I am not sure where I should go to meet him."

Haldir laughed. "Lord Celeborn is not here. He will return but shortly, I believe. May I show you to your rooms, Mithrandir? You are invited to join us at dinner, as well, once you have…washed up." He looked Gandalf up and down, taking in the ragged, dirty state of his cloak and the straggling strands of his beard.

Flustered once more, Gandalf nodded his consent, and Haldir turned smartly on a well-shod heel. His green cloak swung magnificently behind him, and Gandalf felt terribly underdressed.

The magnificent dinner weighed heavily in his stomach as Gandalf puffed on his long pipe. He looked out of a small balcony onto the heart of the city; dozens of feet in the air, the torches and candles looked like fireflies alighting on the white tree trunks. The beauty of the place was almost incomprehensible. Every surface was carved with perfect craftsmanship, and veins of precious metal filigreed every angle, catching the light of the torches and shining ethereally.

He stood there, puffing his pipe and taking in the beauty beneath him, for what seemed like hours. His business with Celeborn kept his mind occupied, and he ran his fingers absentmindedly over the silver inlay on the balcony. Below, statuesque elves went about their evenings; notes of flute music drifted on the forest breeze. The treetops all but masked the stars, but lights glowed within the branches to create constellations of their own.

He had never been to Lothlorien before, and truth be told, knew little of the wood-elves. The young wizard had traveled far through many parts of Middle Earth, but his knowledge of the elves was mostly confined to the customs of those who lived in Imladris.

Gandalf twisted Narya on his finger, drawing on the ring's strength. The ring's red stone glowed deeply at his touch, and he realized it was not wise to be wearing it in the company of elves. Slipping it off, he placed it carefully in a hidden pocket near his breast. He could still feel the fire of the stone through the wool.

He did not wish to speak to Celeborn of the darkness he feared, let alone on their first meeting.

The lights in the city center below flickered and glowed, casting eerie shadows across the woodwork of the treetrunks. Gandalf desperately wished to feel at peace here, and thought that perhaps, in time, he would.

"You are troubled, wizard."

_Damn these elves, I have not the hearing they possess._ Again taken by surprise, the wizard pulled away from the balcony and turned to survey his questioner.

She was beautiful, in the most ethereal and exotic way possible; he felt the urge to pinch himself. Her hair flowed in golden rivulets past pointed ears and down to her slender fingertips, held in place by a circlet set with pale blue stones. The stones matched the unnervingly pale color of her eyes, making them only more intense. Her face seemed to glow with an inner light, illuminating and smoothing any sharp edges and giving her a quietly dignified air.

"My-my lady," stumbled Gandalf. "You must be… the lady Galadriel."

She smiled, almost tiredly. "I have foreseen your arrival, Mithrandir. You seek Lord Celeborn; regardless of what has been said, it will be many months unti he arrives back in the wood."

Gandalf felt his shoulders fall. "If I may ask why, my lady…?"

Galadriel looked at him, cocking her head so that her fall of hair brushed gently over her grey velvet sleeve. "It was not Celeborn who desired the company of Gandalf the Grey."

The wizard opened his mouth to question, then crinkled his nose in confusion. "I do not understand, my lady."

The pale eyes widened and the cool marble of her face warmed by a degree. He could see a smile playing at her lips. She took a step towards him, reaching for his hand. He was surprised that hers was strikingly warm; her overall countenance was so cool and calculated that she appeared more statue than elf.

"It is not the lord of the wood who summoned you here, but the lady."

Comprehension dawned in Gandalf's brain, and he blushed. Galadriel's fingers were still entwined with his, and he was suddenly very conscious of the mud undoubtedly trapped under his nails.

Chancing another look at her face, he met the burning blue eyes with sudden confidence. "Any way I can be of service, Lady Galadriel, I will do my best to fulfill."

She released his hands and the playful smile returned to her lips. "I merely wished to meet you, Gandalf, last of the Istari." She gestured to the small settee in the well-appointed sitting room. "Sit with me, Mithrandir."

He did as suggested, sinking into the green velvet upholstery with another silent thanks for elven comforts. Galadriel sat delicately next to him, arranging her skirts as she did.

That night, they spoke for hours, of times past and times to come; though little of their conversation was light, Gandalf left the sitting room in the small hours of the morning with the impression that he had made an important new acquaintance.


	2. Chapter 2

Days passed without word from the lady of the wood. Gandalf spent his days speaking with members of the woodland clans, learning elven customs and delighting in the comforts of Lothlorien. While he passed his time, though, he could not shake the feeling that his movements and conversations were being watched; the woods had eyes unseen, and the strange new wizard drew no small amount of attention.

One morning, as Gandalf sat with his quill and ink over a thick sheaf of parchment, he heard a knock on the doorframe. His room was secluded, lost in a warren of unused guest rooms, and thus far he had had no visitors beyond that night with Lady Galadriel. Sheathing the quill in his inkpot, Gandalf shifted to see who was at the door.

Haldir stood, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, his large frame almost blocking the light from the hallway. "Mithrandir. I hope to have found you in good spirits this morning, for I have a request from the Lady Galadriel."

Gandalf felt his heart skip a beat when he heard her name. Trying to mask the emotion he was feeling, he told the elf, "Thank you, Haldir. What does the lady desire of me?"

Haldir looked bored with his task. "She bids you meet her in the glade past the armory. I believe it is her intention to show you something of great importance."

Gandalf stood, nodding his head in agreement. "Thank you, Haldir. I will go at once."

The young elf bowed his head and turned to take his leave. Gandalf watched his retreating form, ensuring that he was alone before reaching hastily for his looking-glass. A curious instrument, he had brought it with him from Rivendell; the frame was wrought with the images of twisted vines, and the glass in the center stayed perpetually clean and uncracked. Lifting it to his face, he studied himself.

The day before, he had found a single silver hair in his dark beard. With a quick once-over, he determined that he was still grey-free; he brushed a few strands out of his face and smoothed down his hair and unruly eyebrows. Blushing slightly at his vanity, he stowed the looking-glass and pulled his cloak over his shoulders.

The glade was only just past the armory, close enough to hear the bustle of the city but also far enough away that he was alone with the Lady upon arrival. She was clad in a midnight-blue dress that sparkled with threads of silver, and this time her hair was bound in complicated braids before falling down her back. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld the beauty before him.

"My lord Gandalf," she said as greeting. "I am glad you found me so quickly."

He bowed his head. "Of course, my lady."

She turned to look at the crown of trees above them, taking her time, before saying, "I hope your time so far in Lothlorien has been satisfactory?"

He smiled at the banality of the question. "Yes, my lady. Quite so."

A silence stretched between them that seemed to reach even the birds that had been chirping in the birches. Gandalf stood uncomfortably, still unsure of why he had been summoned to the glade.

Galadriel smiled her secret smile again, knowing exactly how the wizard was feeling. She finally turned, looking back at him, and said, "I wish to show you something, Mithrandir. But it must be kept a secret."

Gandalf slowly nodded.

She began to walk forward, through the glade and into the forest itself, leaving Gandalf to stride along in her wake. They walked in silence for about two hundred paces, before Galadriel came to a halt. Before her, a gazebo formed completely of intertwined birch saplings sprouted from the ground. Vines entwined with the branches, creating a canopy to the birch frame, and within it stood a shallow marble bowl perched upon a carved tree trunk. The trunk appeared to be very old; it held veins of pounded silver, gold, and precious gems, so small as to be almost invisible. Gandalf thought it must be most beautiful when light shone upon it.

"This, Gandalf, is a sacred place. It is where I am able to learn things…about myself, about the world…about you." Galadriel walked slowly around the marble bowl, the train of her dress trailing behind her on the mossy floor.

Stepping closer, Gandalf realized that the bowl was not a bowl, but a mirror. Galadriel peered over the lip of the bowl, touching its surface with one long finger. Gandalf could see a mist rising within the surface of the mirror, straining to escape, and he was trying to look unobtrusively over the edge when he heard the elf breathe in sharply.

"My lady?"

She shook back her blonde tresses and turned her blue stare upon him. He saw her mind working furiously behind those pale eyes, and wondered what it could have been that she had seen.

"This is what may come to pass…if you continue on your current path," she whispered, reading his mind. "I will show you, if you wish to see."

Hesitantly, he toed forward until he could also see the mirror in its entirety. The mist still swirled under the surface, and he could see nothing else but whiteness.

Gently, Galadriel grasped his hand from the folds of his cloak. _Do not be afraid, Mithrandir._

Startled at the sound of her voice in his head, Gandalf shuddered and looked at her again; but a warning glance from the elf caused him to look back at the mirror.

The mists had parted when their skin made contact. He was now looking at the mirror and seeing what Galadriel saw.

The images flashed by: a company of dwarves; a long march towards a lonely goal; battles, more battles than he had ever been in; a red dragon, arcing through the sky and leaving trails of thick smoke; a lost stronghold, packed with gold; death, the death of dwarves, elves, orcs, goblins.

The mists swirled back into the mirror for a second, then parted to show a single frozen image. It was Gandalf's balcony in Lothlorien, and he stood at it in his traveling robes, except he was not standing alone. In his arms, captured in a passionate embrace, was the Lady Galadriel.


	3. Chapter 3

The mirror clouded over again, obscuring the image of the lovers' embrace. Galadriel simply looked at the wizard, tilting her head and giving him an unreadable stare before letting go of his hand, her fingers trailing down his as she did.

They walked back through the glade in silence, Gandalf sneaking glances at the beautiful elf as they made their way through the grass. He felt like he should remember more of what the mirror had shown, but truthfully the only image he recalled in its entirety was the last one.

She had said that the mirror showed what might come, if he continued on his current path. Her face was impassive, and they had not said a word since she had broken their connection by dropping his hand.

Upon reaching the edge of the city, Galadriel turned to face the wizard. "Mithrandir," she began. Then, stopping as if to reconsider what she was going to say, she bowed her head towards the ground. A moment of silence preceded her next words. "I would call on you tonight, if you will have me."

Gandalf had difficulty believing what he was hearing. He had prepared himself for the lady to send him away, after seeing what they had seen in the mirror. He stood in front of her, slack-jawed, before pulling himself together and realizing she was waiting on an answer.

"Of-of course, my lady," he stammered.

Her face broke into her half-smile, and she inclined her head slightly before turning away from the wizard.

Gandalf was jumpy for the rest of the afternoon. As night fell and the elven guards lit their torches, the wooded city taking on its eerie glow, he sat in his sitting-room nervously going over the letters he had been writing before Haldir interrupted him. It felt like a lifetime ago, but had only been that morning.

He mused on what the lady might want from him. He had felt this way, experienced this same stomach-dropping attraction, for plenty of beings before, elves and humans both. That certainly did not mean that his feelings were reciprocated; chances were, the lady just had something else to discuss with him. He felt foolish for even thinking that she might think of him as more than a useful tool in her arsenal of advisors.

And yet, the mirror showed what might come, if he continued on his current path. Which mean that in some future, he and Galadriel—

A knock on the door broke into his thoughts, and he shuffled the parchment before stacking it on the table. He knew who it was at the door, and his heart was racing already in anticipation.

Lit from behind, her hair appeared even more luminous; the golden shine of the diadem on her forehead paled in comparison to that brightness. She had let out the braids from earlier in the day, and her hair again cascaded down her back.

"Gandalf," she said as greeting.

He rushed awkwardly to the door before bowing. "My lady Galadriel. I am glad you found my rooms—I cannot imagine you spending much time in Lothlorien's guest quarters."

She smiled slowly, moving carefully into the room. Looking around, she took in the carved wood furniture and filigreed bookcases, the wrought-silver candleholders, and the wizard's incongruous woolen cloak flung haphazardly over the settee. She reached out to move it, but he quickly pulled it from her grasp.

"You mustn't—that thing is very, very dirty," he said with embarrassment. He folded it and tucked it away in his bag, very conscious of the elf's presence.

She was still smiling when he turned back to look at her. Sitting again next to her on the settee, he asked, "What is it you need from me, my lady?"

"Well, my dear Mithrandir, that remains to be seen." She turned to look at him out of the corner of his eye, judging, understanding, revealing him. He had never felt so naked than under the gaze of the Lady of Lothlorien.

"I asked you here because I felt it important to meet the newest member of the Istari. New, being the wrong term… you are not new to Middle Earth, are you, Gandalf?"

He paused at the question, seeing that she clearly knew the answer. "No, my lady. I have been here for many years so far."

"And yet, you have not come to Lorien."

The statement hung like an indictment between them, and he did not know what to say. Until now, it had not seemed at all unordinary that he had not visited the seat of the wood-elves. His time in Middle-Earth had been taken up by life in Rivendell, along with many years traversing the land.

"I have been…otherwise occupied," he faltered.

"We have heard much of you, Gandalf. Stormcrow. Greyhame. Mithrandir. Olorin." She smiled, and he again squirmed at her expression.

She put her hand on his knee. "I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, wizard. Tell me…what have you heard of me?"

Gandalf swallowed uncomfortably. "I have heard much about you, my lady. Your name is one that carries great weight in Middle Earth. I have heard that your hair…shines like the light of the Two Trees. That your elven power allows you visions of the future, and the past." He faltered, unsure if he should continue.

She closed her eyes at his words. "May I share something, wizard?"

He nodded slowly.

"I am weary," she whispered. "I am weary of the weight I carry with me, the weight of things seen and unseen… I wish to forget it, if just for a moment, an hour." Her head tilted back against the velvet cushions, and his heart began to beat quickly again at the sight of her. She was, for the first time, vulnerable.


	4. Chapter 4

He placed his hand on her hand, and she clasped his knee more tightly. "My lady… I know, a little, of what it is you speak," he said carefully. "A wizard must carry a fraction of those burdens with him, as well."

She looked up at him, her pale eyes letting down their icy walls. "I thought perhaps, if we met, and spoke of these things, we could aid each other. That is why I asked you here, Mithrandir."

He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Instead, he moved closer to the elf so that their knees were touching as they sat on the cushions.

After a moment or so of silence, his youthful curiosity got the better of him. "My lady, if I may ask…in the mirror, today. The last image we saw—"

She turned abruptly to look directly at him. The ferocity of her gaze felt like an icicle in his stomach. "I thought I had seen all there was to see for you, thus far, Mithrandir," she began. "Yet it seems even I can still be surprised. That image…it was as new to me as it was to you. That is…assuming it was a new thought to you?"

Gandalf felt a bright blush rising up from his dark beard. He averted his gaze, but not before he caught a glimpse of Galadriel's self-satisfied smirk.

"I see." Again, they sat without speaking, both deep in thought.

When he could take no more, Gandalf turned and opened his mouth to speak, only to see Galadriel looking at him in watchful silence. He did not know how long she had been doing this, but the look on her face was one he had not yet seen.

And then, without a word, she leaned forward and kissed him, softly, her lips meeting his amid the thatch of his beard. She tasted of the clean, sharp scent of pine, and he found himself leaning into her kiss, moving his hand into her long blonde hair, marveling at the satiny softness of her lips.

After a moment, she pulled back, a look of shock on her face. "I must apologize, Mithrandir, for my indecent behavior—" she said, moving gracefully yet quickly off the couch.

He reached up and grasped a handful of her gown, crumpling the velvet and pulling her back down to the settee. "I do not mind, my lady," he said, before pressing his lips to hers a second time. She resisted, only for a second, before eagerly returning his kiss. She ran her fingers over the thin material of his robe, feeling the leanly muscled body inside, and caught her other hand in his dark hair. She could feel his hands exploring her back, feeling the laces on her dress, before rethinking that course of action and returning to her hair. Their kisses became more passionate, punctured by gasps from Galadriel as the young wizard decorated her neck with soft kisses. When she could take it no more she pulled him up, away from her collarbone and back to her lips. Their tongues worked in a rhythm she had never known with Celeborn, and she felt something in herself, an arousal, a passion, that she had not felt in hundreds of years.

Gandalf's mind raced, still unable to take in his great fortune. The lovely, ethereal Lady Galadriel, here, with him, biting his lower lip—he moved his hands on her waist, tracing up her spine, finally toppling her over so that his solidity pinned her to the couch. Still they kissed, never breaking contact, and he felt her exploratory hands moving gracefully down his back, circling his buttocks, then moving back up to stroke his hair. He felt himself unable to think anymore, only doing what he felt right.

And then, she pushed him off of her. Sitting up, straightening her bodice and righting her diadem, the Lady Galadriel looked up Gandalf and said, "I must leave now. But, Mithrandir… I will come back."

Her lips were still bee-stung from his rough kisses as she spoke. He rose off the couch to try to catch her as she left the room, but she was too quick for him.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Gandalf found himself awake just as the leaves outside his window were being touched by the first pale light of dawn. Tangled in silken sheets left in disarray from a fitful sleep, he took a few moments at daybreak to think to himself. The previous night's visit had left him feverish and confused until the small hours of the morning, thoughts of the lovely Galadriel keeping sleep at bay.

Her advance had been the incarnation of something he had scarcely dared to dream about. An elven queen, not only hundreds of years his senior but also one of the most powerful elves in all of Middle Earth—and _married_ to another of those powerful elves—had deemed it desirable to approach him, a young and unproven wandering wizard. It seemed that perhaps he had dreamt their encounter.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Gandalf reached for his robes as the day began in earnest. Outside his window, the fair city had already awoken. He thought that perhaps today he would visit the vast library of Lothlorien, a vast series of rooms holding texts and drawings of which he had only heard stories.

He made his way down the spiraling tree trunk staircase to the leaf-covered ground below, deciding against a morning cup of tea. A few days before, Haldir had shown him the location of the library during a brief tour of the city; Gandalf knew the rooms were perched within a particularly sturdy oak, turning up and up into the sky past most of the treetops. The library of Lorien could be found in the tallest tree in the city.

Humming quietly, the wizard strode past tree-dwelling after tree-dwelling, looking above him at the woven bridges and carved steps tied and hewn gracefully into the wood. This was certainly the most beautiful and compelling place he had ever been. Everything seemed perpetually peaceful in Lorien, and every attention had been brought to making the city as beautiful as possible.

After ten minutes of walking, the library rose before him. It towered above the birch trees, small windows and balconies peppering the smoothed surface of the trunk. Pausing to gaze up at the magnificence that was this fabled place, he felt a broad grin come unbidden to his face. The wizard was desperately fond of anything involving books, and maps, and ways to learn more about his surroundings.

"Gandalf," she whispered, from directly behind him. He felt the hairs on his neck rise at the sound of her voice, and goosebumps spread down his back. He turned, to find the lady of the wood so close their noses almost touched.

"You have an interest in our library?" she said, without moving away.

He let out a slow breath, composing his thoughts. "I have been known to enjoy a library from time to time," he said finally. "There is a great deal to be learned about this place of yours."

She laughed, and the timbre of it was lower than he had expected it to be.

Lowering her eyelashes, she said, "I, too, enjoy the quiet spaces here. Come, Mithrandir. I will show you."

Taking the awestruck wizard by the hand as she had the day before, she moved lightly towards the library entrance. He followed her quickly, not wanting to lose her hand.

The library foyer was dark and dusty, and Galadriel lit one of the silver sconces with a slow wave of her hand. The light she had created glowed white, unlike any flame Gandalf had ever seen.

Slowly, she turned towards him, and said, "I had hoped I would find you today, wizard. But I had not thought to see you so soon. I take it you slept well, to be awake so early?"

He chuckled nervously. "On the contrary, my lady, I slept quite fitfully. Our encounter last night left me much to…think on."

A smile spread over Galadriel's face, and her eyes crinkled in enjoyment. Gandalf felt his stomach twist.

"Then, wizard, we seem to have had similar nights. Come. Let us explore the library of Lorien."

He had never seen so many books in so many spaces. The elves were not a messy folk, nor an unorganized one, and as such, the books were all in neat lines; but their placement made it clear that every shelf was necessary. Books lined the doorways; shelves covered every inch of wall; carrels were mounted to the wooden floors. Every room was equipped with a leatherbound log of what could be found within, chained to a pedestal at the foot of the staircases that spiraled up the center of each room. Gandalf followed Galadriel upwards and upwards through room after dazzling room, each one full of more books than even an elf could read in its lifetime. Galadriel tossed out comments regarding the contents of each room, ranging from woodland plants to fighting styles of the goblin clans to the history of the Silmarils. Finally, when they had gone through over two dozen rooms, the pair found themselves unable to climb any higher. The staircase ended in a watchtower perched among the highest branches of the oak tree, reaching away across the treetops.

The watchtower was large, yet sparsely equipped. There was a small bed in the corner, no doubt for one elf to sleep while another took watch. A quiver of arrows leaned against the bedpost, along with a package of lembas bread.

Galadriel went to the edge, placing her slender hands around the wrought silver fencing that surrounded the edge of the highest room. Thick greenery stretched as far as Gandalf could see, the trees dappled with reds and yellows as they prepared to don their autumn finery. He could not see the city beneath them; it was as if they were the only people in the world.

He went to her then, drawing her into his arms as they both looked over the edge onto the landscape beyond. She leaned back into his tall frame, her golden hair wisping in the quiet breeze. He felt her hand sneak upwards to his cheek, and they stood for a moment or so, just like that.

Then, without warning, she spun around and again they were nose-to-nose, only this time she did not hold herself back. He received her kiss eagerly as she fell into him, and she put both hands on his strong chest while he grasped the railing to balance them both.


	6. Chapter 6

Her kiss had a hunger that had not been present the night before, a certainty that meant she had thought about what was going to happen in great detail. He felt her hands delicately unclasp the silver brooch that caught his robes at his throat, dropping the jewel to the ground before slowly searching over his collarbones, pushing the fabric away. His robes gapped down the center, and he realized he should feel exposed; the breeze toyed with the wool and he felt the cold, but the warmth of the elf in his arms took his mind off any discomfort.

She pushed him towards the watchmen's cot, still kissing him with a growing ferocity that he had not expected. He tripped ungracefully onto the mattress, and the fumble broke their kiss. He looked into her eyes as she rose above him, and he saw an almost predatory passion there.

Delicately, she pulled at the ribbons securing her dress, sliding it off one alabaster shoulder and then the other, her unblemished skin glowing with an unbidden light. Gandalf suddenly felt as if he was in the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong world; how on earth could this unearthly creature be standing in front of him, removing her dress inch by inch, an enchanting smile spreading slowly across her face as she saw his incredulous expression?

His eyes rolled back into his head as she bent her golden head to place a soft kiss on his lips. It was good it was so early in the day; he had a feeling they would be in the watchtower for a good long while.

They continued their trysts, exploring the lost and hidden places of Lothlorien. Gandalf had been in the wood for over two months, trying fruitlessly to make the most of his time there by observing the elves and their customs. However, the company of the lady of the wood interrupted his pursuits almost daily. He found himself unable to concentrate on the task at hand, waiting constantly for a tap at the door; a letter delivered by messenger; or a request through Haldir.

As time passed, Gandalf grew more and more uneasy with their situation. He knew, of course, that nothing could come of their relationship, and his mounting guilt at focusing so much time and effort on her was rubbing a sore spot in his mind.

It was not so much that he was intimidated by Celeborn or afraid of his return to Lorien. If anything, Galadriel had much more to lose if her husband were to find out about her infidelity.

The lovers had avoided the subject of her husband's inevitable return, tiptoeing around it the way a person avoids touching a bruise. Gandalf was not familiar with the ways of the elves, and had thought many a time that perhaps Galadriel had done this before—perhaps it was normal or at least unchallenged among those of the wood. She did not seem concerned in the least, and that made him feel even stranger about the whole situation.

_You must speak to her, _he told himself. _You will not rest until you do._


End file.
